


The Next Game

by cmshaw



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-26
Updated: 2002-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmshaw/pseuds/cmshaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My usual frivolities would be entirely unwelcome here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Game

"Rack 'em up," said Ray Kowalski, suiting his actions to his words as he tossed the brightly-colored balls down onto the worn felt. He and Ray Vecchio worked together with no communication other than the clatter of the balls and the swift motions of their hands as they together shifted and settled the striped and solid colors into a configuration as much artistic as mathematical. I leaned against the wall and watched, as I had been watching the previous three games. In times past I'd joined in, competing against one or the other man in a friendly bout -- often, in fact, in this very room. Now I stood aside, and watched, and tried not to be bitter as I thought of lost chances.

Ray and Ray bent thoughtfully over the table. Their eyes tracked the changing layout of the game, their hands and feet tapped nervous tattoos against pool cues and carpeted floor, and they spoke quietly and to the point: "Good break." "Nice shot." "This one in the corner pocket." They didn't laugh or joke, and it was quite obvious that my usual frivolities -- a deliberate misinterpretation of a rule or an accidental brush against a player taking aim -- would have been entirely unwelcome in this game. And yet it was clear that they were enjoying themselves; Ray Vecchio stood with his back straight and his chin up, eyes calmly tracking Ray Kowalski as he crouched down a little, bounced back up to his feet, ran one hand through his crackling hair, and lined up his next shot.

I used to play a small game with myself, a game-with-the-game on nights when I would play a game of pool with one of these men. It went like this: What if I rubbed this pool cue lewdly -- would he know what I meant? What if I leaned against him as he bent to take his shot -- would he know what I meant? What if he ran his tongue around the rim of his beer glass again -- could I pretend he meant he wanted me? This game of "what-if" was a pastime, an idleness, never intended to signify anything in particular. I knew the difference between reality and fantasy, after all. I knew the real answers to my questions.

Watching their game, I found myself playing my own game. What if Ray Kowalski leaned in just a little closer to compliment Ray Vecchio's next shot? What if Ray Vecchio leaned his hip against Ray Kowalski instead of the table next time he rechalked his cue stick? What if -- what if as they did these things, they smiled just a little bit and looked at each other like...well, like...well, rather in the manner in which they were looking at each other already.

I know the difference between reality and fantasy.

I set down the untasted beer which they had pressed into my hands at the beginning of the evening. "I believe I'll find the toilet facilities now," I announced vaguely.

Ray Kowalski looked up at me briefly, and then his eyes returned to the pool table, or possibly to Ray Vecchio's hands on the edge of the pool table. Ray Vecchio merely grunted without turning toward me. "Okay," he said.

I fled the room. I didn't think it would happen tonight (not on Ray's father's pool table, not bare sweat-stained skin against the heavy green felt and age-darkened wood, not bodies slamming against the solid bulk of the furniture as they twisted frantically closer together, not spit and spunk and two men whom I desperately desired fucking with no interest in me), not tonight, no. But soon, I thought. Very soon, and I would not be invited to watch that game with a beer in my hand.


End file.
